


Sugar we're Going Down

by applepieisworthit



Series: THE DURINS AREN'T AS MAJESTIC AS THEY THINK THEY ARE [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: OMG Dets I get the research so much research tag now, dain character study, sansukh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst Dáin had had the pig for six months he was still unused to it lying around his rooms and the throne room of the Iron Hills, so really, it was only a matter of time until something happened to make him look incredibly stupid. </p>
<p>Of course that had to be him tripping over the blasted thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar we're Going Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/gifts).



> Everything I write about Dain turns into a character study... I can't help it.

Dáin had had the pig from Thorin for nearly six months now and he still hadn’t named it. The pig had become a constant companion, trotting along beside Dáin as he strolled through the halls of the Iron Hills and Dáin had already purchased ten more stout piglets from some eastern trader and had recruited a couple of Eastern Blacklock Dwarrowdams who could train pigs.

Dáin was immensely proud of his developing Battlepig squadron and had realised as a result that after Khazad-Dum the Western Dwarf armies were decimated and needed to be built up. Dáin made it his mission to have the best army in Middle Earth.

Whilst Dáin had had the pig for six months he was still unused to it lying around his rooms and the throne room of the Iron Hills, so really, it was only a matter of time until something happened to make him look incredibly stupid.  
Of course that had to be him tripping over the blasted thing.

Two weeks into the stay of the ambassador from the Orocarni Mountains; the rude, stuffy old Dwarf who believed he knew the best way to run Dáin’s mountain and had spent his time there trying to marry Dáin off to his daughter, a stout Dwarrowdam with an oddly thin nose and dark hair piled in elaborate Blacklock braids on top of her head and trailing down her back.

Dáin had been stoutly refusing to hear any talk about marriage, Dwarves married for the love of their one not for convenience, and Dáin refused to be coerced into a political move that would give a selfish Dwarf control over his father’s and grandfather’s beloved home.

The Blacklock ambassador Dorar, the father of Drós, the Dwarrowdam he wished Dáin to marry, was still insistent that Dáin was unfit to rule and needed guidance from a Dwarf more mature than him. Dáin had been consistently ignoring Dorar’s pestering and had focused on making trade agreements with his much more approachable subordinates.  
The ambassador’s doubts surrounding Dáin came to a head the day that Thorin arrived in the Iron Hills to aid in the negotiations between the Eastern and Western Dwarves. Whilst Dáin knew that his much-loved cousin was arriving this day, most of the others in his mountain thought that Thorin was turning up in two days. It had been a plan agreed on between the two young Dwarf leaders, they both wanted a brief break from duties and to be able to see each other without scrutiny for a short time before Thorin had to be a King and Dáin had to be a Lord.

Thorin had arrived early that morning with Dwalin. Their younger cousin who had practically worshipped the ground Dáin walked on before Azanulbizar and had become as close to Dáin as Dáin was to Thorin in the aftermath when they were all recovering from the horrific battle they had been too young to see. Dáin and Dwalin, who had been 29 at the battle, only three years younger than Dáin, had also both lost both their parents. Náin, Fundin and Dweris had all been in the King’s personal guard and had all fallen with their King. Dáin’s mother Daeris had been with the rest of the expert sword wielders in the elite guard that advanced before the King, and had given her life in service to Thrór as well.

They had arrived before most of the mountain was awake and had been shown to their rooms discreetly by Dáin’s most trusted advisor and closest friend Bálli. An incredibly kind but shrewd Dwarf with a barrel plaited, dyed vibrant green beard which fell down their chest in three thick braids and denoted their proud status as Zatakhuzdun. Bálli had known Dáin from infancy and had been the one to pull him from his grief again and again after Azanulbizar when Dáin’s closest family had had to leave for Ered Luin.

Dáin had seen Thorin earlier that morning before he had to leave for breakfast in his empty rooms, but Dáin had been stuck in meetings with the infuriating Dorar for nearly four hours now and was becoming increasingly frustrated at every other word coming out of the oblivious Dwarf’s mouth.

Bálli was stiffening more and more in anger and indignation for their friend at Dáin’s side, and over the course of the meeting Dáin has already had to lay a calming hand on their arm four times to stop any detrimental scuffles breaking out. 

As Dorar rambles on about proper court etiquette for a Dwarf Lord at the other end of the table, Dáin leans over to Bálli and whispers that maybe they should go fetch Thorin and Dwalin and get them to watch the meeting from the hidden room in the back. Dáin was worried about the way the meeting may end up going and having the King of Durin’s folk and one of the most renowned veterans of Azanulbizar in the back ready to come out, on Dáin’s side, and sort out any disputes that range into dangerous territory could only be a good thing.

By the time Bálli has returned ten minutes later, and informed Dáin that his cousins are in position, almost all of Dáin’s advisors are bristling with indignation at the thinly veiled insults issuing from Dorar, who was still oblivious to the building tension in Dáin’s council rooms.

When Dáin rises from his seat at the head of the table the room falls silent and Dorar’s needling nasal voice trails off finally. This ability to go unnoticed and let his advisors accidentally reveal more than intended whilst also being able to command silence with certain moves that Dáin seems to possess without trying becomes incredibly useful in his later life, ruling over his cousin’s regained Kingdom.

It happens when Dáin is heading over to get a drink from the sideboard; he knows that he could have some servant do this for him, and Dorar and many of the older, more stuck up Dwarrows most likely think this. However, he is not an invalid, even with only one whole leg, and whilst he is healthy he refuses to make the dwarves that work for him, that he respects, do menial jobs he could do himself. Even though he had been raised as a Dwarf Lord he knows about hardship from both his ‘Adad and sigin’adad and refuses to not acknowledge any suffering that the Dwarves he is responsible for might face.

The pig (which he still has to name) is lying across the floor near his chair as usual, but in his anger and frustration he has forgotten about it and his iron foot, an attachment he is still slightly clumsy on, even after wearing it for 15 years since Thira made it for him, catches on both the pig’s tail and the slightly uneven marble floor, from where Dáin had chipped it as a small child playing with a small version of Náin’s Warhammer during Náin’s council meetings.

He is sent sprawling across the hard, cold; unforgiving ground and he can practically feel the wince coming from Bálli as they leap out of their seat to his aid straight away. There is a resounding silence from the rest of the room as Bálli pulls Dáin to his feet and helps him to readjust his iron foot. The room bursts into noise as soon as Dáin is back on his feet and his closest advisors rush to help and check that he is okay.

All Dáin can feel is a sinking sensation of dread as he watches Dorar across the room. This dread is validated when, after everyone has migrated back to their seats and Dáin has reassured nearly everyone in the room that he is okay (except a few of Dorar's ensemble who have been snickering to themselves this whole time), Dorar stands again and starts speaking in his nasally voice. This time however, there is an underlying sneer and patronising tone to the words which slip from his slimy tongue.

“You see? This is what I was talking about my fellow esteemed Dwarves. How are we meant to trust the ruling of one of the greatest Dwarven strongholds to him? He is only 51 years old and he just tripped over a pig! Is this the Dwarf we want ruling so many of our people?! A Dwarrow who cannot control how he walks? A cripple. An orphan. A child. We must not let this inexperienced juvenile youth to lead the Iron Hills, the source of much of the Dwarves’ wealth, into ruin! You and Thráin’s son?! You are who we have to lead us into prosperity? We will fail if the fates of the greatest Dwarf kingdoms are left in your hands! The youngsters who failed to keep any of their family alive eighteen years ago! And now we are expected to trust you? Hah! I will not leave the Dwarves’ fate in the hands of the likes of you or your cousin playing at being King…”

Dáin could feel his chest tightening and his breath catching in his chest in horror and sorrow as this Dwarf laid bare all of Dáin’s deepest fears. 

He heard a quiet scuffle behind him and could just imagine Thorin holding Dwalin back from chopping the horrid Dorar’s head off for the insults offered to his King and his closest cousins.

Dáin could feel the anger and utter horrified feelings rolling off Bálli and his closest advisors nearest to him as Dorar carried on insulting the members of the Line of Durin obliviously at the other end of the table. He didn’t know how to respond; he sat there hating himself as all of his ‘Adad’s training flew out his head and he froze.

It was when Dorar said, “Maybe we shouldn’t have the Line of Durin as our rulers anymore! Thorin I went mad and then Thrór! How do we know that Grór didn’t pass the madness down to Náin and Dáin?! How can we trust our iron and gold and gems to a line plagued by madness?”

It was the last sentence that got the biggest reaction, Azanulbizar may have been a mistake, but no one insulted a Durin without major backlash; for all the bad that had plagued the Durin line in the last few centuries there was too much good to make up for it. Besides, Durin was the first Dwarf and Mahal’s favourite and of his children the Longbeard line were the direct descendants and carried Durin’s greatness in their veins.

Before Dáin or any of his other advisors, including Náin’s oldest friend, the tough old Dwarrowdam Kárunn and Daeris’ personal advisor and close friend, Skúvur, could even consider jumping to their new, and beloved, Lord’s defense Bálli was out of their seat and storming towards Dorar.

“What do you know? Hmm? Were you there? Did you fight beside Thrór? Did you offer your life for the good of the Dwarves? Did you even try to help reclaim our ancient homeland? Were you there!?”

“Now see here...”

“See what Dorar? That you were a coward and now choose to insult those who would have willingly given their lives in service to their King!? Call our Lord, a Dwarrow who lost his the bottom half of his leg for Thrór, a cripple?! Imply he is a coward? You clearly don’t understand and yet you think you have the right to question King Thorin and Lord Dáin.”

To the shock of everyone in the council room Dorar's fist whipped out and caught Bálli under their chin sending them skidding back across the room where they tripped over Dáin’s pig and were sent sprawling backwards, this act of treachery shocked Dáin out of his horrified stupor and he rose slowly out of his chair at the head of the table, his left hand clenched around Náin’s Warhammer at his side, his knuckles turning white with the force of his rage at the humiliation being meted against his best friend.

A silence fell slowly over the room as the horrified advisors looked between their furious Lord and the insulting, treasonous Blacklock Dwarf in trepidation. 

Before Dáin could move from his spot there was a loud crash from behind him and Dwalin fell through the door, Thorin standing behind him his face the picture of disgust and uncontrollable rage. Dwalin pulled himself up off the floor quickly and, ignoring the shocked faces of everyone in the room except Dáin, drew Grasper from his over the shoulder straps and stalked right up into Dorar’s face, his axe held into what could be nothing other than a threatening position against the old Dwarrow’s throat. 

Thorin had followed Dwalin over, his pace barely controlled and his lips pulled back in a snarl. The room had gone completely quiet when people saw the appearance of Dwalin, a fierce some 29 year old Dwarfling before Khazad-Dum, and now a heavily muscled, tattooed Dwarrow with a Mohawk reminiscent of the slightly older Dáin, who Dwalin practically worshipped. 

The silence became tense and slightly fearful when Thorin followed his younger cousin out through the wreckage of the door. He clapped Dáin’s shoulder in solidarity on his way past.

Whilst Thorin marched over to Dorar, Dáin rushed over to Bálli and helped to pull them up from the wreckage of the table they had crashed into after tripping over the pig when Dorar punched them. The room fell even more silent if that was possible and everyone seemed to draw a breath at once when Thorin finally towered over Dorar; even at 72 and 48 respectively Thorin and Dwalin were two of the tallest of Durin’s folk.

“Would you like to say what you just insinuated in front of my cousin, the Lord of the Iron Hills, to me? King of Durin’s folk? YOUR King?! You think you can get away with insulting my sigin’adad and have no repercussions?” Dorar opened his mouth to respond, but Thorin cut back in before he could say anything, “You think you have the right to insinuate that we are the reason I have no brother, no grandfather, no father anymore,” here Thorin’s voice broke and Dáin had to control himself from crossing the room and pulling his hurting older cousin into a bone-crushing hug, “that Dáin, who was 32 at the time, too far from being an adult, has no parents anymore?!”

Dorar stuttered, flinching away from where Dwalin’s axe, and clearly trying to come up with an answer that would appease the furious Dwarf King. When he had been stuttering for what Thorin clearly deemed too long Thorin leaned closer, a contemptuous sneer on his face.

“If you would like to keep your head attached to your shoulders then you should think very carefully about the next words out of your mouth.”

“M..My King, I never meant any insult…”

Dwalin’s snort from behind the stuttering Dwarf echoed around the room and made Dorar flinch away from the grizzly Dwarf and unintentionally towards the enraged King. Thorin growled and whirled away from Dorar, storming out of the room, his shoulders set and his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his gait faltering and unsteady thanks to his anger.

Dorar deflated as Dwalin followed behind the young King with one final shoulder clap for his older cousin and a contemptuous snarl for Dorar. 

Dáin had watched his cousin’s anger grow hot and fiery with hate at the Dwarf who had insulted his family but found his own turning icy and cold in his veins, and finally understood the fundamental difference between them. Whilst Thorin would whirl into a rage and destroy everything in his path like a dragon, Dáin knew that his anger would simmer cold beneath the surface and come out in curt words and taciturn dismissals.

After helping Bálli up from the ground and making sure they were okay, Dáin walked slowly and controlled over to Dorar, standing a respectable distance away, and whilst there were so many differences between his and his cousin’s anger the room was still silent and tense as Dáin stared the rude Dwarf down.

“I thank you for your presence in the Iron Hills, Dorar” here Dorar opened his mouth to correct Dáin over the omission of his title, but Dáin’s voice cut across his sharply, “but we feel that the trade agreements you have brought with you are useless to everyone but you and as such we will be doing no more trade with the Blacklock clan in the Red Mountains until they send an ambassador appropriate to be negotiating with Dáin II Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills. 

Until then we thank you for your visit and ask you to please GET THE FUCK OUT.” Here Dáin could not control his anger anymore and hefted his father’s Warhammer over his shoulder with little to no effort and stared at Dorar until said Dwarf made an affronted noise and whirled on his heels, storming out of the room muttering.

Dáin noticed Bálli smirking over his shoulder and winked at them, before turning to the pig Thorin had gifted him and deciding its name.

“I shall name you ‘uhban. Welcome to the Iron Hills.”

**Author's Note:**

> Previous: Balin  
> Next: Thorin
> 
> Khuzdul (courtesy of Dwarrow Scholar and Determamfidd):  
> Zatakhuzdun – literally, “Whole Dwarf, one/embodies this” – nonbinary, gender-neutral.  
> Sigin’adad – grandfather  
> ‘Adad – father  
> ‘uhban – he who takes revenge


End file.
